


Secondhand Smoke

by ParabolaBeam



Category: RWBY
Genre: Cinderruby, F/F, fallen petals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:52:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParabolaBeam/pseuds/ParabolaBeam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to kill you. Do you know that?" She hums casually. "I could do it. I could suffocate you…" Her lips meet yours, slow and hungry, and you can't help yourself for returning the gesture in kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secondhand Smoke

It clouds around her lips with a lazy exhale, and your eyes water as it pours into your mouth from hers. Her fingers are in your hair and yours are in hers, and her breath chokes you and crowds your throat with poison, but you’re letting her.

Your chest stings and your heart races as her fingers fan against the nape of your neck, her thumbs settling in the hollows of your throat and pressing. It’s easily enough to send you reeling, to have you on your back, lungs tight and taxed.

She looks at you like a dragon keeps to gold, her secrets sinking to the inside of your insides, through your membranes and into your bones with the acrid sting of her breath, her body pressed flush and hot against yours.

"I want to kill you. Do you know that?" She hums casually. "I could do it. I could suffocate you…" Her lips meet yours, slow and hungry, and you can’t help yourself for returning the gesture in kind.

"I could kiss you until you can’t breathe anymore, until I’m trapped in your lungs. And then after watching your last breath-I’ll spread you open and _fuck_ your still-warm flesh.”

She makes it sound so _good_.

But she’s only doing that because she has no intention of following through, of granting you her pleasures.

Once, her words would’ve terrified you, abhorred you, but you know better, that her confessions are the most profound intimacy she is capable of, beyond the kissing, the sex, any of it: she’s baring body and soul to you and you never tell her that you can’t get enough, because that would insinuate that she is incapable of providing for you.

Her teeth latch on at your collarbone, and she bites hard, until you’re clinging to her just the way she wants you to. Your arms wrap around her and your nails drag red down her back, sharp enough for her whole body to writhe under your touch, for the shiver that refers through her to roll against your center.

The amber light in her eyes flickers as she raises her gaze to yours.

"Such a soft, warm one you are." She coos as she walks her fingers over the arch of your chest, dips one, then the other into your mouth to stroke your tongue. She doesn’t need to ask you to suck them. "Roses have thorns, do they not?" You moan obediently, trembling in spite of yourself as she plants a hand against your thigh and pushes inexorably. "I want to wrap myself around you and feel your sharpest places. I want everything."

You whimper with anticipation as her fingers drag out of your mouth, nails edging against your hips as she slides her touch full between your legs.

You’ve long-since learned that she’ll never cut her nails for you, but the pain gets you scared, and your fear gets her off.

A hiss breaks the silence of the breath you were holding as her fingers pluck against your clit idly, toying with you. Her head is dipped so low, _watching_ , her soft hair tickling the inside of your thigh, that you almost don’t hear what she says next.

"I’ll rip your wings right out of your back, so you can stay here in hell with me."

The next moment is _white_. Her tongue is flush against you, dragging up slowly on your folds the first moment, then fluttering against your clit in the next, lighter than a butterfly’s wings, fast like a hummingbird. Her hands are pushing, reaching around, holding you open as she licks you raw, savors your taste.

You could really be dying. The keening whines that peel from your throat could certainly fool someone into thinking that’s the case.

"So pink, so _pretty_ -” She hums against you, her words vibrating around your slick heat, and your world is centered on her, on the way she makes it impossible to breathe. Her lips spread against you and her tongue slides deep inside, bringing her smoldering, roiling heat with it: you’re _cunt_ , all cunt as she carries you to the edge and tosses you over it with the kind of fall that could knock the wind out of your lungs forever.

You’re sobbing by the end of it, spent and debauched, and you watch as she sits up and wipes the back of her hand across her lips, panting just as hard as you are.

Neither of you can stop. Neither of you say another word as you wrap around each other, as you press your sharpest places to her, as she rips the wings out of your back, as she fills your lungs with smoke through a haze of kisses once more.

You don’t need, nor want, to be rescued. Not from this, not from her. You chose this and you’re hers, and you’re in just deep enough to believe she’s yours, too.


End file.
